


Knowledge

by Anuna



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Intimacy, One Shot, Prompt Fic, Romance, post series 3
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-01-31
Packaged: 2018-01-10 17:14:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1162370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anuna/pseuds/Anuna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>"the awkwardness she used to have around him is lost in favour of knowledge one acquires through sharing the living space and air and the colours on the walls."</i> (Sherlock isn't feeling really well, Molly is taking care of him, Mycroft is to blame. )</p><p>Written to a prompt: Mycroft, either on purpose or by accident, helps Sherlock and Molly get together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Knowledge

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for a prompt by **flounderandflail** on tumblr. First time ever writing Sherlock. *bites fingernails* i hope I did well!

“That's not a very good idea,” she says from behind him. There's no mistake that she can deduce it from the stiff way he's still moving. 

“I can manage it,” he says evenly, even though lifting his arm brings considerable pain. It's not dangerous, just uncomfortable; his ribs have healed quite enough and enduring a bit of - 

“Stop it,” she says when she steps up next to him and takes the razor from his hand. It occurs to him that she does so without much trouble, even though he is taller and was able to predict what she would do. “Let me.” 

“Molly,” he says, the hard line he's been meaning to draw between them melting into a sigh. She just meets his eyes with a raised eyebrow he's gotten acquainted with over the last three weeks. 

“Mycroft was right,” she says, determining that he hasn't committed any harm to his face. “You're very neglectful when it comes to your health.”

“I am not,” he manages an imitation of the usual imperious tone, one that Molly isn't buying for awhile now. He tries anyway, and John might be just right when he calls him Mr Punchline who would argue with God, only to win. Except there are battles he doesn't get to win. 

“No, _of course_ ,” she says. Her bathroom could use a better lighting, but since it's something that requires climbing the ladder and lifting arms, he is currently unable to fix it. “How long have you been standing on that leg of yours?” she asks and pins him with the look that's trained to notice details, so he knows she doesn't miss the fact that he's trying to spare his (still broken) left leg. 

Mycroft is right about lot of things. Not that Sherlock would admit out loud, but he makes a content sound when Molly pulls up a chair to the sink and he sits down. He doesn't even try to pretend sitting isn't much better than standing. 

With that he surrenders, like a war general giving up his flag and his sword. He can count the times he let someone else shave his face on fingers of a single hand, until now. Cracked ribs, bruises and a broken leg would have been much worse on his dignity if he were handled by anyone else, except maybe John, who has a nine month old daughter and doesn't need a limping, cranky person around his home. (Much like Sherlock doesn't need the sound of a baby crying, no matter how much he's fond of his goddaughter. Pain and baby wailing don't mix really well. In the end Mycroft's choice proves good, and as much he'd enjoy being in his own flat, Mrs Hudson is in no condition to handle a heavier, taller male person who cannot walk properly on his own). 

It leaves Molly, but in all honesty this isn't about the last possible option. She isn't his last choice. He leans back, noting how there is no discomfort about being in an exposed position like this, noting that her palms smell of the citrus and olive oil cream Mary gave her for Christmas, before the scent is drowned in the minty smell of his shaving cream. She is gentle, and her hands are steady, and the awkwardness she used to have around him is lost in favour of knowledge one acquires through sharing the living space and air and the colours on the walls. Her face still flushes, just slightly, and seeing that makes his chest tingle just a bit. 

“Relax, now,” she says, and he does, his leg comfortable and his ribs undisturbed. She starts with his left cheek, gently turns his face, tilts it upwards, slow and careful with his neck. Finally, she pats his face with a towel. 

Sherlock opens his eyes. 

“Hair as well?” she asks. 

“No, it's quite fine,” he says, softer than he usually would, a direct response to her tone. “You did that two days ago.” 

“Well, if you want, I'd be happy to -”

Her hand hovers for a moment in the space between them, pulling away finally, with certain sad resoluteness. All through his sick leave she's been helping him sit up and down and walk, helped him dress and shave and washed his hair. She had touched him more than any woman in his adult life had, but she doesn't touch him when there is no necessity to disguise her affection. 

He sits up, mindful of his ribs and slowly rises to his full height, and now it's Molly looking up at him. It's always been Molly looking at him. For an observant man he's been blinded, awfully so. You don't notice someone who's always been there, and you don't realize how much you rely on someone until you do. It's always something. 

But she's here now, and he is here and his leg is starting to protest, but he ignores it. Pain is, after all, a sign of being alive, and the look in her eyes seems to cut through him, surprisingly sharp for something that looks so soft. 

She doesn't protest when he takes both of her hands in his. She is merely surprised, with a splash of red on her cheeks. All the more surprise fills her eyes when he places her hands against his chest and she can feel the staccato of his heartbeat. 

“I think I'm quite fine like this, Molly Hooper.” 

“You are,” she says, just a little breathless, but then his voice is catching as well. 

“Yes,” he pauses, watching her intently, as softly as he knows. Some battles he's not supposed to win. It's for his own good. If he were John, he would call Mycroft and say something nice to him, if not thank him, but he is not John. Beisdes, Mycroft will know. “More than fine,” he adds, lifting one palm to his lips and closing his eyes against the touch as familiar as the collar of his coat.


End file.
